


the shape i'm in

by hellodeer



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-01 20:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10198937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellodeer/pseuds/hellodeer
Summary: She imagines herself hand in hand with Sara, their steps echoing around the old walls of the buildings, their laughter reaching the low roofs. The neighbors poke their heads outside their doors, frown as they pass by. Mila and Sara smile and wave, giddy, happy, in love.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TereziMakara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TereziMakara/gifts).



It’s kind of stupid to think about, but in the soft and warm morning sunlight, Mila supposes secrets are allowed. The problem is that Sara’s apartment overlooks a quiet, narrow street. From the big window in the living room, Mila can see her walk the yellow and grey cobblestones, slick with leftover snow and rain. She imagines herself hand in hand with Sara, their steps echoing around the old walls of the buildings, their laughter reaching the low roofs. The neighbors poke their heads outside their doors, frown as they pass by. Mila and Sara smile and wave, giddy, happy, in love. 

“Hey,” Sara says as she opens the door. Mila, perched on the kitchen counter, says good morning in Russian and takes a sip from her mug.

“I made you coffee,” she says. Sara hums in thanks and sets about putting away the groceries. She bought two bags of vegetables and spices and fruit from the market two streets over; said she’d make Mila dinner.

The sun illuminates Sara’s face. She squints, the lovely bones of her wrist bending as she cuts up strawberries and bananas. Her hair is shorter than it used to be, flowing just below her shoulder. Mila’s, on the other hand, grows longer as the months tick by.

“Here,” Sara says, handing Mila a bow with fruits and a fork. There’s granola in it, too. “Breakfast of champions!”

Mila smiles. “You have it, then.”

The corners of Sara’s mouth quirk upwards. The trophy and gold medal from the 2018 Winter Olympic Games sit prettily on her trophy shelf, gleaming in the light that comes from the open door of the balcony. She beat Mila to it by a good eleven points, too.

“You won a gold medal, too,” Sara points out, hopping on the counter next to Mila, their knees knocking softly.

“Just a team medal,” she shrugs. Sara rolls her eyes.

They take the metro after breakfast. Sara lives five stops away from the arena where Worlds is being held; during Europeans, silver medal tucked safely inside her Team Italy jacket, she offered to let Mila stay with her. Yakov had been against it at first, but Mila pouted and whined until he gave in. It was the best for him, since they both knew she would have done whatever she wanted, anyway.

“You spent too much time with Vitya in your teens,” Yakov had said. Viktor, who had been skating past them, shouted “Good for her!”

Mila leans against the barrier to watch Sara’s short program. Michele quietly stops next to her, and they both nod at each other before shifting their attention back to the ice.

Sara’s music starts. It’s very sad and very lonely. Mila never knows if she wants to cry from the music or from Sara’s beautiful form, the perfect curve of her back, her breathtaking jumps. Her spins are lovely and precise. By the time she’s done, Mila’s feet are off the ground, the barrier digging hard against her belly as she leans forward, closer to the ice, closer to Sara.

She scores above eighty points. Mila hugs her when she’s out of the kiss and cry. Mila’s skin buzzes with excitement and motivation. When it’s finally time for her to skate, she goes and scores above eighty herself.

“You’re a savage,” Sara laughs at her, posing for pics during the small medal ceremony. Mila’s hand is very warm on the small of Sara’s back.

Later, Michele invites Sara to dinner. She says no. He insists.

“Look, dude,” Mila says, after Michele has been bugging Sara for ten entire minutes. She crosses her arms, narrows her eyes at him. “She said no. She doesn’t _want_ to have dinner with you, let it _go_.”

“I’m her brother,” Michele spits back. “Who are _you_?”

Mila opens her mouth in outrage, realizes she has nothing to say, closes it again. _I’m Sara’s friend_ , she doesn't want to say. _I’m Sara’s best friend_ , even less so.

Sara wraps her fingers around Mila’s wrist.

“You have your short program tomorrow, Michele,” Sara purrs. Mila knows her smile is fake and angry. “I have my free skating, too. We should rest.”

Michele leaves with Emil when Sara finally snaps at him after a couple of minutes. Mila is surprised to find out he’s not Sara’s next door neighbor, but instead lives on the opposite side of Milan.

“I know he’s your brother,” Mila sniffs. “But good riddance.”

“I can deal with him. You don’t have to defend me,” but Sara smiles, a real one, the corner of her eyes crinkling. “But it was nice that you did.”

They take the metro back to Sara’s place. She gets recognized a couple of times, happily stops to take pictures and give autographs. Mila holds a boy’s phone and snaps a photo of him and Sara doing peace signs. A girl asks for a picture with Mila, too.

On an average day, Mila gets stopped about five times on her walk from the rink to the apartment she shares with Anya. Double that, if she’s with Yuri.

“It’s not that popular a sport here,” Sara yawns, unlocking the door to her apartment. “Most people are into football, or volleyball, or a number of other sports that involve balls.”

“Yeah,” Mila says, stepping through the door. “I don’t really care for balls.”

Sara smiles. She reaches behind Mila to close the door, arm trapping Mila in place. Their faces are so close Mila can feel Sara’s breath on her lips when she speaks.

“Funny. Me either.”

Sara’s eyes are a deep, lovely purple. Her lips are full and chapped from too much biting, too much picking. Still Mila wants to kiss them, but Sara pulls away as quickly as she leaned in. Mila breathes out, in — she doesn’t know. Relief. Disappointment.

They eat leftovers from last night’s dinner in silence. After, Mila lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. The window is open, but there are no sounds from outside; all she can hear is the water running in the suite’s bathroom, all she can smell is Sara’s coconut shampoo. Mila closes her eyes and envisions her free program instead: her triple axel, her double toe loop, her Y spin. She runs through her choreography in her mind, pictures herself landing every jump, dancing beautifully to the music. Sees herself on the podium with Sara on her right side.

Sara emerges from the bathroom, skin fresh and soft and still a little bit wet. Mila pretends to check her phone while she sneaks peaks at Sara’s thighs.

“Is it okay if I turn out the lights?” Sara asks after drying her hair.

“Sure.”

Sara turns off the lights and burrows under the covers next to Mila. Her apartment is a one bedroom with a double bed. She refuses to let Mila sleep on the couch.

“Good night, Mila,” she says.

Mila says good night, but she doesn’t sleep until hours later. She looks at Sara’s sleeping back, the warm expense of her skin, and she _wants_. She reaches out, but she does not touch.

They’re the last two to skate the next day. Before them, a Canadian girl attempts a _quad_ Salchow and almost lands it.

“Seventeen. She’s so young,” Mila shakes her head in astonishment. They’re leaning on the wall next to the kiss and cry, arms brushing. “I’m old.”

“You’re nineteen,” Sara chuckles. “If you’re old, then what am I?”

Mila grins, tucks her chin on Sara’s shoulder. “Ancient.”

Sara laughs and boops Mila’s nose. Mila’s face turns hot, her fingers shake inside the pockets of her Team Russia jacket. She excuses herself and runs to Yakov.

“Why is your face so red?” he frowns. “Do you have a fever?”

“I’m fine,” she says, more to herself than her coach. “I’m totally fine.”

Sara skates next. She changes her triple toe loop to a quad Salchow but doesn’t land it. She shrugs at Mila when she’s done, while Mila claps and whistles for her.

Mila tries a quad Salchow too, for the fun of it. It doesn’t work, but the rest of her performance is flawless and gets her close to one hundred and fifty points. She wins.

“Mila!” Viktor yells when she steps out of the rink and into a corridor in the arena. He runs to hug her. “Congratulations!”

“Congratulations, Mila,” Yuuri says from behind Viktor.

“You guys are so noisy,” Yuri mumbles when Viktor lets her go. He looks at her and tilts her head. “Congratulations, old hag.”

“Aw, thank you,” Mila pretends to wipe away a tear. 

Sara comes running from the green room and wraps Mila in a tight embrace. 

“Congratulations,” she whispers in Mila’s ear. Mila locks her arms around Sara’s waist, breathes her in.

They stay like that until Sara clears her throat. It takes Mila very confused five seconds of blinking to realize she needs to let Sara go.

“I’m going to look for Michele,” she smiles.

“Oh,” Mila says. “Okay.”

Mila watches as she turns around and goes.

“Have you guys kissed yet,” Yuri blurts out. Mila blinks, frowns, scratches the back of her neck. Yuri’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, you haven’t.”

“You should propose to her!” Viktor says cheerfully, chin on top of Yuuri’s head, holding him from behind.

“They’re not even dating yet, Viktor,” Yuuri shakes his head.

“We weren’t dating when you proposed to me,” Viktor points out. Yuri groans into his hands. Yuuri flushes bright red.

“Of course we were!”

“You never asked me to be your boyfriend.”

“Well I asked you to be my husband!”

“You guys are so gross,” Yuri says. “I’m gonna hang out with Otabek.”

“I’m not going to ask Sara to be my wife,” Mila waves a hand dismissively, tries to laugh it off.

Viktor tilts his head. “But you want to.”

Mila stays silent.

If Mila leans into Sara’s side as they pose for pictures during the award ceremony, elbow digging into soft ribs, she is the only one to know.

Later, they find to a secluded section of the stands where they’re mostly alone. They watch Michele skate a lukewarm short program. Sara still cheers the loudest out of all the arena. Mila claps politely.

“Here comes Russia’s team Olympic gold medalist Georgi Popovich!” Mila yells. Georgi doesn’t hear her, but he does wave in her direction.

“Good luck, Olympic gold medalist and Four Continents champion Yuuri Katsuki!” Sara screams, hands cupped around her mouth. Mila giggles.

“Look at that, it’s Olympic bronze medalist and European champion Viktor Nikiforov on his return to skating!” Mila makes a heart shape with her hands. Viktor blows her a kiss.

“Two times Grand Prix Final champion and Olympic silver medalist Yuri Plisetsky!” Sara cheers. “What a sweet boy!”

“Davai, Yuri!” Mila says.

It’s close to midnight when they take the last train. They pass out when they make it to Sara’s apartment, but not before Mila places her trophy on Sara’s shelf, their medals hanging next to each other.

The Saturday morning sunlight escapes through a corner of Sara’s curtain and hits Mila squarely in the nose. It’s much too warm, as is the hand running through her hair. Mila snuggles further into the blankets.

There’s breathing close to her ear, a voice that says “Wake up, sleepyhead,” with softness and mirth. Pearly laughter.

Mila blinks. Turns around to find Sara in a bra and old, sleep-soft cotton shorts, hovering above her with a smile. Excuses herself to take a really cold shower.

Sara takes her to her favorite hole-in-the-wall bistro for brunch. It’s called, to Sara’s endless delight, _Colazione_.

“It’s a breakfast place called breakfast,” she laughs to herself. Viktor has said the exact same thing before, to which Mila rolled her eyes and scoffed. Now she smiles, takes a sip of her cappuccino, resists the urge to brush a lock of Sara’s hair behind her ear.

They step out into the chilly streets and walk the short way to the Pinacoteca di Brera. There’s a long line of tourists and locals alike, but Sara bought tickets in advance, so they breeze through security and into the first gallery.

Mila glides on the waxed granite floor. Sara takes her by the hand and talks for hours about Andrea Mantegna, Raphael, religious symbolism, the Renaissance.

In a room with a high ceiling and blue walls, Mila stops in front of the painting of a young couple passionately kissing.

“That’s The Kiss, by Francesco Hayez,” says Sara, coming to stand next to Mila. “It’s his best known work. People like to give it deep, meaningful interpretations, but I think just what we see on the surface is nice, too.”

The man, cupping the woman’s head. Her hand on his shoulder. Her back bending, his body leaning into hers. Her closed eyes, their mouths and noses touching.

Mila feels tears come to her eyes, feels the emotions inside of her as they threaten to spill. She laughs wetly, loudly. She clears her throat.

“You’re so smart,” she says, hopes her voice doesn’t betray her. She wants, more than anything, to touch Sara’s face, to push her thumb against Sara’s bottom lip. She wants to get close enough to smell Sara’s unwashed hair, to put her ear to Sara’s chest and hear her heart beat, steady and strong.

“I was an Art History major,” Sara shrugs. “I’m supposed to know these things.”

“Still,” Mila insists.

They make it back to Sara’s apartment just before dinnertime. Sara sits Mila on the couch and says she’s going to cook some risotto. 

Mila texts davai!!! do your best!!! to Georgi, Yuri and the Katsuki-Nikiforovs. She checks Twitter and Instagram, where she likes Anya’s pictures with her new boyfriend and watches Chris’s free skate makeup video. She reads the news. She goes on her university’s website, check her emails.

She gets up and walks to the kitchen. 

“I want to help,” she says.

Sara smiles like she knew this would happen.

“Okay,” she says. She points to three carrots lined up on the counter. “Chop those, please.”

After dinner, Sara plugs her iPhone to the audio dock in the living room. It’s a silly, light green and yellow thing shaped like a mellon that she got in Nagoya during the Grand Prix Final. Mila laughed at her inside the shop, and in retaliation Sara picked up an atrocious Domo-kun hat from a nearby rack and shoved it on top of Mila’s head. 

Mila bought the hat.

Soft classical music fills the empty space between their bodies as they sit on the couch with twin glasses of wine and a plate of sweet cinnamon biscuits. Sara, sitting sideways, snuggles her toes under Mila’s thighs and wiggles them.

A powerful and beautiful tango starts playing. Mila, a bit of wine already to her head, jumps to her feet and bows to Sara, extending her hand. Sara laughs and takes it.

Fingers warm on Sara’s waist, Mila guides her across the living room, laughing, startled, when Sara keeps stepping on her toes. Sara’s grip is firm on her shoulder, even as Mila whirls and turns them around, even as she dips a giggling Sara. A cold breeze wafts over from the open door of the balcony. Mila shivers, from the wind or Sara’s proximity, she doesn’t know.

The tango ends, but they continue to dance close to each other as upbeat American pop fills the room. Mila, too busy starting at the curve of Sara’s neck, trips on nothing and stumbles forwards. Sara catches her with arms around her waist.

Mila laughs, sheepish. Sara’s eyes flicker to her lips for a second. She swallows.

“Sara,” she whispers, afraid that if she speaks louder the moment will be broken. “Sara, I want to—”

“Yes,” Sara says. She closes her eyes.

Mila leaps.

Sara’s lips are dry from the cold. She tastes of wine and cinnamon biscuits, and she smiles against Mila’s mouth, breath wet and warm. She squeezes her arms around Mila’s waist.

“Finally,” she sighs. “I thought you’d never kiss me.”

Mila, one hand on the soft hair at the back of Sara’s neck, the other cupping her cheek, bumps her nose with Sara’s slowly.

“Did you want me to?” Mila says. Her heart beats a fast thump-thump-thump against her ribs.

“I invited you to my home,” Sara says, in disbelief. “I took you on a date. We _slept on the same bed_.”

“Oh.”

Sara tilts her head. “Yuri Plisetsky told me you were quick to flirt and sleep with girls.”

Mila flushes. 

“That’s different!” she stutters. “You’re my friend! My best friend! I didn’t want to screw things up.”

“Well,” Sara smiles. “You didn’t.”

Mila kisses her again.

**Author's Note:**

> title from pretty girl, by hayley kiyoko
> 
> to TereziMakara, i hope you like it!!!!!!


End file.
